End of Days: The Complete Trilogy (Books 1-3)

by Meg Collett

  “Yes, sir,” the Descendants said, speaking over each other. They nodded briskly and retreated to their cars. Clark looked back at the angels as the Descendants drove away. The night breeze flopped a lock of hair into his eyes.

  “You have been summoned,” the leader spoke to Michaela. She snorted.

  “Oh sure, I bet that will be a fair judgment, just like Gabriel’s.” Her hand clenched Clark’s arm weakly.

  “The Aethere have sent us to bring you back.”

  “I won’t go back as a traitor,” Michaela said.

  The Seraphim saw Michaela’s injury, and Clark knew they calculated the fight would be easy, almost laughable. But Michaela leaned forward as if she was ready to spring into action. Clark’s grip on her tightened, worried she would actually try it.

  “You have no shame? Betraying Heaven, and you stand here proud? You have no honor.”

  “And what do you have, seraph? You fight for a leader who bargains human souls with the devil.” She spat the words out.

  A seraph to the left looked toward their leader with confusion written on his face. “Jehoel? What does she say?”

  Jehoel shook his head violently with his fists clenched tight against his sides. “Don’t listen to the lies of a fallen.”

  “Call me what you will, Jehoel,” Michaela began. “But think about how your precious Aethere weaseled their way into the Archangels’ position.”

  “From the serpent’s tongue!” another seraph exclaimed.

  When Michaela made no move other than a defiant shrug of her shoulders, Jehoel signaled the other Seraphim to circle around them. They closed in, and Clark held Michaela tighter mainly for his own comfort.

  “You will see me for what I am,” Michaela said before the angels came any closer. She stepped away from him and tugged at the frayed hem until inches of her flat, white stomach was exposed. “Help me with my shirt,” she said when Clark didn’t move.

  “Excuse me?” Clark asked, watching as Michaela struggled.

  “Lift my shirt,” Michaela said through gritted teeth. Clark understood, and together they pulled the thin fabric up enough to expose her back, which Michaela turned toward Jehoel.

  “Have you seen a fallen angel with scars like these before, Jehoel?” she asked.

  The angry burns from the explosion oozed across her back and arms. They were red and bloody, but healing. Such simple wounds—enough to kill a human—were easy to tell apart from the other, more powerful sort.

  Two long lines jagged down the middle of her back from beneath her shoulder blades to above the top of her jeans. The scars were raised and looked like a flaming whip had been thrashed across her skin. They were an unnatural black color. Dark bruises spanned across her shoulders where the wings had been yanked from a source deep within Michaela. Even her back looked slightly twisted as if Lucifer altered the alignment of her bones when he tore off her wings.

  She let her shirt fall back down and she turned back around. “My wings were taken from me. If I were a fallen, do you really believe I would be treated with such disrespect?” Michaela was exhausted. She leaned heavily against Clark.

  The Seraphim stood quietly for a long time as if Michaela had proved her point. For a moment, Clark thought they had convinced them. Finally, the Seraphim blinked awake from their trance and slowly winded back to life like an old toy.

  Jehoel’s eyes settled on Michaela’s arm. He traced the dark scars that wove around her arm and spiraled toward the crook of her elbow. Clark watched the seraph closely, and he knew immediately when the angel decided not to listen to Michaela. The angel’s eerie eyes flicked to the other Seraphim.

  They converged like a flock of vultures. The Seraphim yanked Michaela from Clark’s arms before he could even blink. Michaela struggled against Jehoel and three other angels. Fresh blood spread across the back of her shirt as her injuries ripped anew. “Listen to me!” Michaela screamed. “Just listen!”

  “Let her go!” Clark shouted.

  He cussed and spewed into the quiet night air outside the metal fence of the cemetery. A seraph kicked him hard in the chest. Michaela disappeared from his vision as Clark flew backwards. His back slammed into the concrete.

  The air in his lungs jarred out, and his vision slanted drunkenly for a moment. Two Seraphim walked over to him. One held a long dagger with edges framed in gold. Clark’s eyes grew wide, and he kicked and punched at anything within reach.

  The red words on his skin were alive as he flailed his arms through the air. One of the Seraphim clamped down on his forearm hard enough that Clark felt his bones bend. He didn’t register the pain or notice the second seraph holding the dagger crouch beside his throat. Instead, his eyes focused on the foreign, secret language inked onto his arms.

  His eyes swept across the letters as they formed words, which he heard spoken aloud in his mind. He felt their power, their capabilities. They consumed him with their sheer beauty.

  The dagger settled against his throat. In the next millisecond, the seraph would apply the faintest pressure and end his life—dashing it out with a thin, red line. It was almost that millisecond later when Clark spoke two words that stood out from the others on his arms.

  The words weren’t English or human. They were the magic of the Watchers. For the tiniest of breaths, nothing happened except time seemed to pause, allowing the two Seraphim to recognize the distinct sound of a language the angels thought was long lost.

  Time whirred back into motion, and everything was real again. The two Seraphim’s eyes ignited. They jerked back, dropping Clark and the dagger to the road. They opened their mouths and screamed.

  The sound was a whistle, and it was complete torture. Clark forgot what he had just done. His body writhed against the pain of the sound. He clasped his hands over his ears and clenched his eyes shut. Horrified, the other Seraphim and Michaela stopped to look at the angels stumbling away from Clark.

  The Seraphim didn’t stop shrieking as they looked at their outstretched hands. They were burnt, but not like Michaela’s back. The skin on their hands was black, charred. From the tips of their fingers, smoke rose into the air, stinking and putrid, and not like any burnt smell Clark had experienced before. A breeze started and blew against them all. The two Seraphim’s skin crumbled and joined the wind.

  The seraph who restrained Clark was burnt the most. He had no skin covering his bones up to his biceps. Even his muscles and tendons and inner parts of his arm were singed and melted into dripping ooze. The seraph holding the dagger was burnt on his right hand. The tips of his fingers were bone poking through the tattered edges of peeling skin.

  The injured Seraphim turned and ran from Clark without a backwards glance. They took to the air with frantic beats of their shivering wings. The other Seraphim stepped away from Michaela and retreated.

  The only seraph remaining was their leader, Jehoel. He stared at Clark. If he had believed Michaela before, his eyes now said he assumed the worst of her. He finally looked at her before he stepped into the air and flew away, taking with him any hope of concealing Clark’s markings from the holy angels.

  Clark propped up on his elbows with a shocked, slightly terrified expression. He watched the sky where the Seraphim disappeared. When he looked at Michaela, they both shifted their gaze to the marks on his arms.

  For once, Clark couldn’t find an appropriate curse word.

  26

  “Welcome to the Jungle” permeated the depths of Clark’s dream. Groggily, he tried to understand the sound. His eyes drooped heavily from a fitful sleep full of nightmares about Seraphim. Only when the phone vibrated off the bedside table and crashed to the floor did Clark understand the meaning of the ruckus. In a tangle of sheets and pillows, Clark stumbled from the bed, and scooped the phone up.

  He glanced at Michaela, watching to make sure she didn’t wake as he rounded the edge of her bed. She was stretched out, laying face down on the bed with a single, thin sheet bunched at her hips. Her back was bare, exp
osed to allow the bubbling burns to heal beneath the cool air of the wobbling ceiling fan. Her arms were splayed out at her side. She didn’t wake. She hadn’t moved for hours.

  Clark tip toed the rest of the way out of their new motel room and closed the door quietly behind him. Only then did he look at his phone’s screen. He froze. It was his father.

  If he waited any longer the call would go to voicemail. His finger swiped across the screen before he stopped himself. “Hello?”

  “Clark.” Isaac exhaled in a huff, like he was surprised Clark answered.

  “What do you want?” Clark asked, not unkindly, but he was definitely suspicious. He waited, drumming fingers across his ribs. His foot danced against the stained, cracked concrete. From the interstate, a semi-truck’s horn blared. The smog settled at the back of his throat, tickling like a cough.

  Isaac cleared his throat. “I need to talk to Michaela.”

  Clark needed a moment for his father’s words to sink in. Isaac knew he was with Michaela, but somehow, Clark wasn’t surprised. He rolled his eyes to the motel’s overhang as he grappled for a response. His father waited patiently for the first time in years. Clark looked back to the motel door and then back to his phone, wondering if he was still dreaming.

  In the end, he only managed a stunned, “What?”

  “I know you’re with Michaela,” his father said evenly, calmly. His tone only confused Clark more. “I know you found her in the cave that night. It’s okay, Clark.”

  “Um, okay?” Clark said, unsure what to think. It was early in the morning, but the parking lot started to stir. Truckers and late night workers pulled in to the Waffle House across the road. Clark heard voices in the neighboring rooms.

  “I’m not mad,” Isaac said, like he thought Clark might be worried about that. “But I need you to let me talk to Michaela.”

  “You can’t,” Clark said, still bewildered.

  “Why?” Isaac asked sharply. “She’s still with you, right?”

  “Yeah. But she’s in bed, healing. There was an explosion…” Clark pictured his father tapping an expensive ink pen into the thick cherry wood of his desk. A tumbler of scotch was probably condensing from the ice and the warm Kentucky air coming through the open window behind his father’s desk. A half-smoked cigar likely burned in an ashtray.

  “Is she okay? How badly was she injured?” Isaac pressed.

  “I guess the burns were pretty bad—”

  “You guess?”

  Clark narrowed his eyes, preparing for a fight. His hackles rose instinctively. “I’m not a doctor, but I would say for an angel, a few third degree burns aren’t a big deal. She’s sleeping now. Her back is almost healed already.”

  Isaac breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Don’t repeat me. You know how that pisses me off. I need you to bring her here,” Isaac said.

  Clark frowned. “Here?”

  “Damn it, Clark, what did I just say?” Clark heard Isaac pause to fortify his patience before he went on. “Bring Michaela back to the compound.”

  “The comp—” Clark stopped himself. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to bring her there. Everyone is hunting her. You are hunting her.”

  “I know. But there is something she needs to see. You and I will keep her safe, Clark. I will make sure she is protected.” Isaac reassured him.

  “How can I believe you? How do I know you won’t turn her as soon as we pull in?”

  “Clark, on your mother’s grave, I swear I won’t do anything to hurt you two.”

  At that, Clark was silent a long moment. He battled with wanting to believe his father and a strong disbelief that Isaac would ever go against the Descendants. But Isaac never mentioned Iris, and he certainly wouldn’t swear on her grave if he didn’t mean it. Clark could at least figure out what had happened and let Michaela decide.

  “What’s wrong?” Clark asked. He stepped forward and wrapped his hand around the rusty bar of the second floor’s railing.

  Isaac didn’t answer for a moment, like he debated telling Clark. Finally, he said, “It’s Zarachiel. He was cast out of Heaven…They took his wings.”

  “Did he fall too?” Clark asked, wondering why this was such a big deal.

  “No.” Isaac’s voice was very careful, controlled. “He didn’t fall.”

  “But he was still holy! How can they cast out a holy angel? And take his wings?”

  “We are dealing with a very different type of holy angel, Clark. The Aethere want to make a point. They are so fervent for this Purification, they don’t care who is hurt along the way,” Isaac said.

  Clark’s gut clenched. His grip on the rail tightened until the flakes of rust painfully scraped his palm. He released the bar and looked at his hand. Angry red lines slashed across his skin. “Is he alive?” Clark asked quietly.

  “Yes.”

  Clark heard the hesitation in Isaac’s response. “Okay,” Clark said.

  Isaac released a heavy breath. “Good. Meet me in the cherry orchard.” Clark was about to hang up when Isaac added, “Clark, there is something else.”

  A moment later, Clark went back into the hotel room with a sinking heart and a churning nausea in his stomach. He quietly closed the door behind him. Michaela hadn’t moved. He sat his phone beside the television and wondered what he was going to do. Restlessly, he raked his hand through his scraggly hair. Soft fuzz grew on the sides of his head, framing the shaggier part of his fading pink Mohawk.

  He crossed to Michaela’s bed and crouched beside her. Her eyelids twitched. The breaths from her parted lips were cool and even against his face.

  “Michaela, wake up.” Clark reached over and poked her arm. He kept poking until she stirred.

  She blinked slowly. The corners of her eyes were crusty, her eyelashes clumped together. A dirty lock of hair fell into her eye. She groaned.

  “It’s Zarachiel. Something’s happened.”

  She moved her arm to brush the hair out of her face. Clark rocked back on his heels and silently regarded her. When Michaela lifted her face off the bed, impressions of the sheet lined her cheek. “What?” she croaked.

  “Abel threw him out of Heaven.”

  Michaela rose onto her elbows, grimacing. “How do you know?’

  “My dad called,” Clark answered simply. “He wants you to go to the Descendants’ compound.”

  Blearily, Michaela shook her head. “I need to stay here. We have to figure out what Cassie is doing.”

  Clark had known Michaela would say that. He had agreed to his father’s request only because he knew Michaela would refuse to leave Charleston. Then Isaac had told him about Abel’s message. Now, he wasn’t so sure what Michaela might decide.

  “Abel left you a message.” Clark looked down to the faded, dishwater gray carpet. “He wrote it on Zarachiel.”

  Michaela remained quiet for a long moment. She turned, facing the opposite wall, and pulled a shirt over her head. It stuck to places on her back, but she yanked it over them. The pain must have been severe, because she took a moment to steady her breath.

  “What did it say?” she asked finally. Clark looked up and met her eyes. “What did it say?” she demanded.

  “It said, ‘Are you proud?’”

  Clark watched Michaela, but he already knew how she would react. Her eyes darkened to the familiar shade of navy blue, and her face paled with fury. The shadows stirred at her feet, bunching and gathering, twining over her bare feet. They rose up her legs, their darkness a shuddering contrast to her pale skin.

  “What does he mean?” Clark asked quietly, looking away from the darkness. He knew angels could conjure both light and darkness, but Clark didn’t think Michaela knew she was doing it.

  “He thinks this war is a game. Win or lose. He thinks I punished angels to prove points. He thinks my reign was about fear and blood and ripping apart angels. He’s referencing when I took Lucifer’s wings. He wants to know if I approve o
f the job he did. He’s an idiot.” Michaela turned away and picked up their duffel of meager supplies and clothes that they kept packed and ready by the door. The shadows fell from her legs and lay normal on the ground once again.

  “What was your reign about?”

  Michaela looked back at Clark, who rose from the floor. Her hand was on the doorknob. “It was about keeping my head above the water. There was nothing ‘pure’ about it.” Michaela opened the door. “Let’s go.”

  27

  They rode in silence for most of the way. Clark, working his way from Charleston to Kentucky, drove at a moderate pace, which was precisely five miles over the speed limit. Michaela didn’t mind the slow speed for once. As Clark adjusted the radio dials, jumping from station to station, she slumped in the passenger seat, numbly watching the world outside the car slip past.

  “How’s your back?” Clark asked.

  Michaela didn’t turn away from the window. “It’s fine, I guess.”

  She didn’t elaborate. Over the next hour, Clark pulled through a drive-thru, ordering two meal combos for himself and a chocolate milkshake for Michaela. The bags were long since empty and smelling up the car when Clark spoke again.

  “Is it Asmodeus?” Clark trained his eyes on the interstate.

  Michaela shifted, glancing at Clark for the first time throughout the drive. “What about him?” Her voice was guarded.

  “Is he the reason you’re sad?”

  Frowning, Michaela answered, “I’m not sad.” Clark narrowed his eyes at her like he didn’t buy it. “I’m not. It was his decision—leaving Heaven, staying with Cassie, ending his…” She cleared her throat, shifting her gaze back to the window. “He was a fallen.”

  Clark sighed in exasperation, which made Michaela cut her eyes back to him. “Really? Who cares?”

  “What?” Michaela asked, surprised.

  “Who gives a shit if he is a fallen? He was still one of your closest friends.”

  Michaela sank lower in the seat. The scent of the ash from the club was still in the back of her nose; she tasted its grit on the underside of her tongue. It wasn’t so long ago that she was in Heaven surrounded by the Archangels, and everything was normal. Now…now she didn’t even want to think about it.